CSi: The Shift That Struck Back
by A Rhea King
Summary: ...Grissom asked, “May I ask how you ended up shot in the butt?”


**The Shift That Struck Back  
**By  
A. Rhea King

Greg stopped the Denali outside of a dumpy house. He and Catherine climbed out with field kits in tow. Even from the street they could hear a man inside the house screaming. The CSI walked inside, finding police trying to subdue the screaming man. In the corner a woman was cowering, even though another policeman was shielding her from the man.

"What's the situation?" Catherine asked the policeman with the woman.

The officer answered, "Neighbors heard gunshots. She's been shot in the arm and won't leave the house. He's... He's out of control. We're pretty sure he's on _something_."

"Did he have a gun when you arrived?"

"No. But when she was still talking, she said he ditched it outside before he came back in. He was wailing on her when we got here."

"Greg, start looking for the gun outside. I'll work with the woman until we get them out of here."

Greg nodded and headed back outside. He sat his kit near the front steps and pulled his camera strap over his head. Greg grabbed a flashlight and began combing the the front lawn making his way around to the driveway. In the bushes separating this yard from the next he spotted the weapon. Greg put his flashlight in his mouth and dug gloves from his pocket. He looked back when more yelling erupt from inside. Catherine suddenly came running out with the victim and pulled her against the house as gunshots rang out inside.

Greg heard a door inside slam and a vehicle engine rumble to life. A pickup barreled through the closed garage door right at Greg.

"GREG!" he heard Catherine scream.

Greg jumped aside to avoid being hit by the pickup, but couldn't miss the large side mirror. It slammed against his cheek, knocking him off balance. He felt the air move as the pickup he was falling toward whooshed past. Arms flailing he hit his forearm on the fender and his camera strap caught on the edge of the tailgate as he fell past it.

Greg let out a sharp cry as the camera strap jerked tight around his neck and yanked him off his feet. He grabbed for it, struggling to pull it free from the strangling strap. It would have appeared his luck suddenly turned when the sharp edge of the tailgate severed the strap; except it happened as the man sped around a corner and momentum sent Greg rolling across the street, right in front of an oncoming van.

From the house Catherine watched in horror, hearing the tires of the van squeal and smoke rise where rubber burned against the pavement. She ran toward it as the teenage driver and his three friends leapt out and ran around to the front.

Greg stared at the tire inches from his nose, too scared to move until he was absolutely certain it really had stopped. Slowly he rolled over and stared up at the black night sky. And then four teenage faces appeared in the serene image.

"Dude! You almost died!" the driver told him. "I mean, two seconds more and you would have been road kill!"

Greg stared at the teenager a moment before telling him, "I hadn't noticed, dude."

Catherine pushed through the boys, crouching down. "Are you alright, Greg?"

"I'm pretty sure I have road rash up my back. My face feels like someone took a baseball bat to it. And--"

"Looks it too," the teenager told him. "Did they?"

"No. And my camera is busted." Greg held up the remains of his camera.

Busted maybe wasn't the best word for it. He had to hold it up with two hands and even then parts fell off.

"Wow! I guess you'll need a new camera," one of the teenagers said.

"Really?" Greg shot back at him.

"Guys, thanks for your help. And you--" she pointed at the driver. "Good driving."

The kid beamed. "Thanks, lady!"

She turned back to Greg. "Would you like to get out of the middle of the street now?"

"No. I enjoy feeling the rocks in my back and elbow."

She smiled, holding out her hand. "Come on. Let's get you to the hospital and have 'em pick them out."

Greg took her hand and let her help him up, dropping his CSI badge. He turned to get it and found one of the teenagers had it and was looking at it.

"You're a policeman?" the boy asked.

Greg shook his head. "CSI."

"Oh. Well, nice to have not hit you, dude."

"Later," Greg replied as he started hobbling toward the Denali.

Catherine chuckled a little. She started brushing him off.

"OW! Ow! Don't touch. No touching. No."

She held her laughter until they were in the vehicle, and then couldn't stop chuckling all the way to the hospital.

* * *

There was nothing different about this crime scene; least not for Greg. Well, maybe there was something slightly different – he had an ugly green and purple bruise from his temple to jaw. It was like wearing a flashing light on his forehead because every police officers and civilians he passed stopped what they were doing to stare at him. So had Warrick stared when he'd picked Greg up from the hospital, but he didn't say anything. 

"What do we have?" Warrick asked as they came upon David kneeling in the living room.

He was examining the dead man before him.

"Looks like a gunshot wound to the temple and one shot to the back."

An officer walked up to them. "We have a suspect in custody and three witnesses."

"Which do you want?" Warrick asked.

"Suspect I guess," Greg answered.

"He's out in the squad car," the officer said, pointing to the car.

Greg glanced at the car. An officer stood next to the back door and he could see the suspect hunched over in the back seat. Greg turned and walked over.

"I need to test the suspect's hands for GSR," Greg told the officer.

"Who won?" he asked, pointing at Greg's bruise.

"The pick-up."

"You were hit by a truck?"

"No. Just the mirror."

"Tonight?"

"Yeah."

"I guess the universe isn't your friend tonight."

"You'll have to take off his handcuffs so I can test his hands."

The officer hesitated, an indication he really wanted more of the story. Greg opened his field kit on the back of the squad car, and pulled on gloves. It apparently was an indication the subject was closed because the officer opened the back and pulled the suspect out, removing his handcuffs for Greg.

Greg glanced at the house when a woman began yelling they were letting the suspect loose. He could see her through the front door arguing with one of the officers, and the officer was probably trying to calmly explain the situation. He was glad he didn't have to deal with the woman as he turned his attention back to the suspect. He glanced back when the commotion got louder. The woman had disappeared and the other two witnesses were now yelling at the innocent officer. Greg turned back to his job as the police officer with him turned to watch the scene inside.

The GSR testing positive. The suspect stared at the glowing pad in Greg's hand. Greg shook his head a little as he bagged the applicator.

"What does that mean?" the suspect asked.

"Means you've fired a gun recently."

"No, I--"

The officer grabbed him and the suspect and pushed them down. A gun went off. Almost immediately Greg felt a burning sensation in his left butt cheek.

He rolled away from the policeman onto the burning sensation, and cried out, grabbing the pained cheek.

"Greg!" Warrick said, suddenly at Greg's side. "Greg? What's wrong?"

"MY ASS!" Greg roared.

"What?" Warrick asked.

"I was shot in my ass!"

Warrick tried not to laugh.

"It isn't funny, Warrick. This is _not_ funny!"

"You're right. You're right. Let's get you back to the hospital."

Greg tried to push Warrick away as he stumbled to his feet, but ultimately he had to have his help. Warrick held his arm as Greg limbed to the CSI Denali. Warrick opened the passenger door and he crawled into the seat. Warrick said something to one of the officers and then got in. He pulled away from the curb, clearing his throat.

"Don't you dare," Greg warned.

Soft chuckling came from the driver's seat.

"Warrick Brown, this is not funny!" Greg turned a dark glare on him.

Warrick started laughing.

"I hate you."

Warrick only laughed harder.

* * *

Greg was laid on his side waiting for a doctor to come back with his release papers. He looked up when the curtain was pushed back and Catherine came in. She crossed her arms, smiling. 

"If you've come here to laugh at me, leave. I've already made them take Warrick out."

"Maybe you should just take the night off. I mean, technically, you _were_ shot and I can approve the leave."

"I now have two cases I haven't been able to do any work on because I've been here." Greg slapped the bed.

Catherine covered her mouth, pushing her finger against her lips.

"Stop laughing!"

She dropped her hands, her humor suddenly gone. "Greg, I know this is embarrassing, but--"

"You weren't shot in the ass in front of a bunch of cops and your partner, were you?"

She smiled, shaking her head. "No. I'm sorry. Look, your cases will be there tomorrow. Just take the night off. The universe is trying to tell you to just go home."

"My cases and a dozen others are waiting for me. I can't just go home. What is taking Grissom and Nick so long?"

"I don't know, I've called him a few times and he won't tell me what's happening, just that they are still hung up at their first call. Greg, go home. Warrick and I can handle the rest of the night."

"No. It's just... a little... gun... shot."

Catherine closed her eyes tight and rolled her lips together to stop the laughter.

"Get out. Get out!"

"I've got another call for you two. Do you want Warrick to wait for you?"

"Whatever."

She left and went out to the waiting room. Warrick looked up at her, drying his eyes.

"I think he wants you to wait," she told him.

Warrick started laughing again.

"Warrick, you have to stop. I mean, he _was_ shot."

"In his butt!"

"It's still getting shot. Be nice."

Warrick fell back in his chair laughing.

"Do I need to give you the trash dump?"

"No," Warrick told her.

"Then be nice to him. I think he might be losing his sense of humor."

"Getting shot in the ass does that to a person," Warrick howled.

She laughed a little.

"I'm... Going to work. Be nice to Greg. Bye." Catherine left. She started laughing when Warrick's laughter got a little louder. Maybe leaving him with Greg wasn't the best idea tonight.

* * *

Greg's mood was not improved with his next call. The call was at a large house in the wealthier side of Las Vegas. He and Warrick entered something resembling a mad house. The woman of the house must have bypassed sex education because she had twelve kids, all only a year or two older than their sibling and all the kids were penned into the parlor off the great hall of the mansion – and talking or crying at the top of their lungs. A dead stranger lay at the bottom of the wide, sweeping granite stairs leading from the hall up to the second floor. The husband was away on business, the nanny was in tears, the mother was screaming at the nanny and the children. Luckily, Warrick had offered to deal with the insanity, leaving Greg to deal with the silent dead man and David. Greg walked up to them, staring down at the man. His neck was twisted a very unnatural angle, suggesting he had a broken neck. But was it broken before or after he got to the bottom of the steps? 

"So I heard someone got shot in the butt tonight," David softly said.

"Stow it!" Greg softly snapped back.

David chuckled; unaware he wasn't helping Greg's temper.

"The way his head is angled, I'd venture to guess C.O.D. might be a broken neck."

"There's no ligature marks or any other marks on his neck?"

"No.

Greg noticed a bulge in the man's hip pocket. "What's in his pocket?"

David patted his pockets and then pulled out a wad of expensive jewelry. Greg sat his kit down and took out an evidence bag.

"THAT'S MINE!" the wife screamed at them.

The two looked up. She was standing in the hall, wagging her finger at the jewelry.

"It's evidence," Greg told her.

"He stole it from me! That's not evidence!"

"Ma'am, come back in the living room, okay?" Warrick said, guiding her back in.

"But it's my jewelry! I want it back!"

"You'll get it back when we're done."

"How do I know that?"

Warrick's answer was lost in the myriad of noise of the parlor children. He took the jewelry from David, bagged it, wrote on the label and dropped it in his kit. He stood, pulling his camera out of his vest pocket.

"Why are you using that?"

"I'm surprised you haven't heard about that too," Greg growled at him.

"Sorry I asked."

Greg didn't apologize. He walked away and started photographing the hall. He stopped to stare up the stairs. They had toys all over them, hazards for anyone coming or going on them. Greg's guess was that the thief was in here in the dark and one of the innocent objects of synthetic material sent him flying down the stairs to his demise.

Something happened in the living room that set one child off into a screaming cry, and then four more joined the first. Greg closed his eyes against the headache starting to build at the back of his neck. Children he liked at a distance, looking cute on TV, and definitely not crying and screaming.

"That camera sucks," someone said.

Greg opened his eyes, looking down. A seven-year-old boy wearing a karate uniform stood next to him. It would be only later that Greg would notice that the child wore a black belt with two white stripes on it.

"You're not supposed to be in here. Go back in the other room," Greg ordered.

"Make me."

"WARRICK!" Greg called. "One escaped!"

"You're mean."

"You're short. Now get."

"Greg, we have more jewelry," David said.

"That's my dad's! Give it to me!" the kid said, running toward David.

Greg grabbed the kid. And then everything happened so fast that Greg would never remember exactly how he ended up back in the hospital for the third time that night.

But Warrick would. He came around the corner just as Greg grabbed the kid's arm. The kick spun and with a 'hi-ya' roundhouse kick-punch, landed a solid connection with foot and fist right at his eye level; which happened to be Greg's groin. He grabbed Greg's arm and flipped him. Landed a hand right between his shoulder blades, grabbed a large vase and lifted it up to bring it crashing down over Greg's head.

"NO!" the kid's mother screamed as she raced past Warrick.

Warrick knew she wasn't going to reach him in time, so he pulled his gun and aimed at the vase, shooting as the kid began swinging it down. The bullet shattered most of the vase. However, the bottom half and heaviest part, smashed down on Greg's head, knocking him unconscious.

"You shot at my kid!" the woman screamed.

"Yeah! And now I'm going to arrest him for assaulting a police officer and tampering with a crime scene. And you too lady. Both of you, up against the wall NOW!"

The two didn't even try to argue with Warrick. He looked at David and found him covering his mouth with both hands to silence his laughter. Tears were streaming down his face. Warrick turned away, facing a direction away from anyone and took him a few minutes to collect himself enough to call for backup and an ambulance.

* * *

The curtain flew back when Catherine yanked it. Greg sat in a chair while Doctor Angela Baker stitched the gash across his temple. 

"You were attacked by a seven-year-old black belt?" she asked.

"Did Warrick mention he shot the vase? He claims to keep the kid from busting open my head, but I think it was vengeance for something I don't remember doing."

Catherine walked up, placing a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her.

"Please, Greg, go home," she quietly urged. "I'm telling you, the universe does not want you in the field tonight. Go. Home."

Greg didn't answer.

"I like her idea," the Doctor Baker told him, "because I'm getting tired of patching you up tonight."

Greg glared at the floor

Doctor Baker smiled as she stood up. She picked up a bandage and taped it over the wound, giving one end a little too hard of a push.

"OW!" Greg cried, pulling back.

"Do what your boss says, go home," she told him.

Greg looked at Doctor Baker. "Just give me the release papers."

She shook her head as she walked away. "Crazy cops!"

Catherine crouched in front of him. "Greg, you have been drug by a vehicle and almost hit by another, your throat's bruised from the camera strap that nearly hung you, you've been shot, beat up, and now you have stitches in your head. Just give up on tonight and go home."

"And you and Warrick are going to handle the other dozen calls we have?"

"Me and Warrick have been running you to the hospital all night. We haven't handled anything."

"Fine! Then give me one and I'll handle it alone. Maybe _you_ _two_ are causing my bad luck."

"Oh thanks!"

"Well! What do you want me to say, Catherine!? I have--"

Doctor Baker returned with the release papers. "I'm going to ask you again to go home, Mister Sanders. Being bullheaded isn't going to make these injuries get any better."

Catherine stood, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Papers," Greg held out his hand.

She handed them over and he scrawled his name across the bottom of them. She tore them apart, handing him his copies and a prescription.

"If you're going to work still, don't take these until you get home."

"I don't need something that'll knock me out. I'm fine."

"What was it your boss just said? Oh yeah. you have been drug by a vehicle and almost hit by another, your throat's bruised from the camera strap that nearly hung you, you've been shot, beat up, and now you have stitches in your head. Apparently none of this has knocked any sense into you. Take it. You'll thank me tomorrow." Baker shoved the prescription under his finger and left thumb, looking him in the eyes. "Child, you are too stupid to know when to quit, do you know that?"

"Thanks for the psych eval. Can I go now?"

She stepped back, motioning towards the door. He got up, grabbed his jacket and headed for it. Catherine shrugged to Baker before following him.

"So, what, we'll see you in an hour or so, Mister Sanders?" Baker called out to him.

Greg stopped when several nurses and doctors laughed. Others were trying not to. He turned to her. "Good night, Doctor Baker.

"Mm-hm," she answered with a knowing smile.

Greg left. Catherine followed, laughing with the nurses and doctors.

* * *

Greg walked up to the door of the apartment and stopped, making Catherine run into him. She stepped around to stand next to him. 

"Problem?" she asked.

"If I go in first, I have bad luck. If I go in last, I have bad luck. If I work with the suspect, I have bad luck. If I work with the dead person, I have bad luck. What's left?"

"Maybe you should try going home and see if your luck changes."

Greg shot her a dark glare. She smiled.

"I'm just saying," she said, walking into the apartment.

"I'll go in last, cover your ass," Brass said from behind Greg.

He turned and Brass smiled.

"Great. You too." Greg entered the apartment.

Brass began telling them about the call as they entered. "Neighbors heard screaming and called the manager, who called us, then came up to check on the tenant by himself. This is what he found."

There was blood splattered everywhere.

"No victim?" Catherine said.

"I didn't see any when I arrived," Brass said.

Catherine slowly looked back at Greg.

"What?" he asked.

"Any room you haven't worked so far that wasn't bad luck?"

"Or that didn't have a seven-year-old kung fu master?" Brass added as he wandered toward the kitchen.

Greg rolled his lips, and then turned toward the door. "Fine. I'll wait in the hall. You process this place yourselves."

"Greg, we were joking," Catherine told him.

"I'm done. I've had a lousy night, I'm tired, I hurt, I'm done!"

Catherine followed him.

Greg heard the twenty-year-old woman yell before she sprang from the hall closet. He had time to drop his kit and turn as the apartment tenant charged at him, wildly wielding a meat cleaver. Greg threw up one arm to protect his throat and face a second later than he should have. The blade sliced through his hand and just short of cutting deep into the vein in his wrist that would have bled him out before he'd have reached the hospital.

Catherine drew her gun, screaming, "STOP!"

That brought Brass and the uniform from the hall, guns drawn and prepared to shoot.

But the woman stopped moving forward. Instead she continued swinging the knife menacingly inches from Greg.

Screaming she commanded, " "OUT! OUT SATAN! I COMMAND THE OUT!"

Greg stared at her for a minute and then all his anger and all his embarrassment and all his pain from the entire night balled into his fist and clocked her with a right hook. The hit knocked her off her feet and unconscious. Greg stared at her, oblivious that blood was dripping from his hand and staining the carpet. Catherine walked up to him, laying her hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, Greg. We're going _back_ to the hospital."

"I... QUIT!" Greg bellowed.

"I'll take that under consideration. Let's go to the hospital, you're bleeding everywhere."

Greg stormed out of the apartment and she followed. The officer walked toward the woman.

"Why don't you take her weapon and cuff her?" Brass suggested. "We're going to have to wait for a CSI now."

The officer just nodded and did as he asked. "I hear that kid's had a pretty rough night tonight.'

Brass nodded. "He really should just go home."

The officer chuckled, and then called for another CSI.

* * *

Greg sat on the edge of the ER exam bed holding his hand in his lap. He'd managed to wrap it on the way over, but blood had soaked through the bandage and he grimaced every time he flexed it. Catherine stood across from him, watching him. She couldn't remember when she'd ever seen him look so angry.

Doctor Baker stepped between the curtains and gripped her chart with both hands. Catherine didn't look at her.

"It wasn't even a full hour, Mister Sanders," Baker told him

He held out his bandaged hand to her. "Just... Fix it."

She walked over and unwrapped his hand, looking over the cut. She looked him in the eye.

"You're going to need at least ten stitches here. It'll hurt like hell if you don't get a local anesthesia."

"So give me the anesthesia and fix it."

"The anesthesia's gonna come at a price."

"What?"

"You will go home and you will stay home for no less than five days. And if I see you back in this ER in the next three days as a CSI, injured on the job, I will call up whoever I need to in order to have you put in the psych ward for a two week evaluation. I will tell that person that Greg Sanders clearly has lost his sanity, because even though the signs that he should have went home tonight were covering his scrawny Caucasian body, he _didn't_!"

Greg stared at her. "That's unethical."

"I never said I was ethical."

"She's the boss," he motioned at Catherine.

"If it will make him go home, I'm not objecting," Catherine told Baker.

"Deal?" Baker asked Greg again.

"This hurts and won't stop bleeding you know."

"Deal?"

Greg gritted his teeth, glaring at both women. But his hand hurt, his head hurt, his butt hurt, and they weren't about to back down.

Through his teeth he snarled, "Fine! Deal."

She bandaged his hands up with the bandages again.

"I'll be back in five minutes. Don't move."

Baker left. Catherine stepped toward him and he held up his other hand, motioning her to stop.

"Go away, Catherine," he told her.

"Greg--" she began.

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"I just want to say--"

"Really don't want to talk about it."

Catherine stopped talking for a moment. "Do you really want me to leave?"

Greg dropped his hand, not answering. She sat down in the chair, watching him, but he didn't speak to her again.

* * *

Grissom left the building, seeing Greg shoving something in the trunk of his car. When it didn't go in right the first time, he started cussing at it. This really surprised Grissom because, to his knowledge, Greg rarely cussed. His own car was next to Greg's so it gave him an excuse to watch Greg as he strolled toward him. 

"SON OF A BITCH GO IN!" Greg screamed at whatever he was wrestling with.

Policemen and civilians turned, watching him.

Grissom slowly walked around his car and cautiously approached Greg. He was at the end of the car when Greg finally noticed him.

"WHAT?!" Greg yelled.

"Is there a problem?" Grissom quietly asked.

"NO!"

Grissom looked down at the spilled field kit in Greg's trunk. Greg started trying to put it back together again, but with his angry smashing of items it wasn't working at all.

"Greg, is something bothering you?"

"NO!"

Grissom stood silently, hoping his presence might prompt Greg to talk.

"Greg--"

"I DON'T WANT TO FUCKING TALK ABOUT! ALL I WANT TO DO IS GO HOME, PUT ICE ON MY ASS AND KILL SOMETHING!"

Grissom was completely caught off guard by 'ass' and 'kill something.'

"You seem very agitated."

"AGGITATED?" Greg asked, turning his fuming anger on Grissom. "I SEEM VERY AGGITATED!?"

Grissom didn't pull away from Greg's anger. He couldn't with his CSI ranting like this. "Greg... maybe you should tell me what's going on. Preferably at a lower volume that won't scare civilians and make police officers consider arresting you."

Greg turned, staring at the people staring at him. Greg turned to Grissom, slamming his car trunk shut.

In a lower voice that gradually increased in volume Greg began, "Catherine and I go to our first call. It's a domestic violence call, one person down. They're still trying to get the husband under control inside, so I start working the perimeter. The husband got to his pickup, comes crashing through the garage door, and almost runs me over trying to escape. I got this from the side mirror." He pointed at his eye, "My camera strap caught on something as he drove by and I was drug me twenty feet before it broke and sent me rolling out in front of van. Luckily, the van had good breaks, but my camera is history. I'm using that stupid, unreliable point and shoot piece of junk!" Greg started pacing the four step by four step area in front of Grissom, getting his arms into the story. "Oh, but the fun didn't stop there! Fuck no! Warrick and I go to the next one, everything seems okay. The suspect is in a squad car, three witness inside, one DOA. We start working it. Suddenly, one of the witnesses goes off, gets a gun, and starts shooting. I get shot! In my _butt_! Granted, not vital, but it HURTS LIKE HELL! But my night isn't even over! Not by a long shot! I have some bratty kung fu master seven-year-old beat the crap out of me. Warrick decides to plays hero and shoots the vase the kid was going to smash over my head, and it smashes over my head anyway. At least that's the version he and David have told me. At the hospital, this ER doctor starts giving me grief about being there so much. So then Catherine and I go to the next one and this deranged psycho-victim-turned-suspect jumps out of a closet with a meat cleaver and screaming 'Satan get out!' And she slices open my hand, just shy of slitting my wrist." Greg presented the bandaged hand to Grissom as proof the incident. "So then the ER Doctor and Catherine ganged up on me, Catherine had Ecklie put me on medical leave for a week while you were who knows where! Okay, so it's paid, but I have evidence to process, Grissom! I have work to do! And when I get back, I'm going to have even more work to do from everyone else's cases because they were doing my work! I haven't eaten all night, I'm starving. I hurt from one end to the other. And I can't even relax to sleep." Greg came to an abrupt halt, staring at Grissom.

Silence followed the unusual Greg rant. Grissom had observed him being in bad moods before, but this was different. He had detected that a lot of Greg's pride was wrapped up in his anger and frustration, and he guessed that Warrick and Catherine had probably added insult to injury. So, he decided that an uncharacteristic outburst needed an uncharacteristic suggestion.

"I had a pretty disturbing case tonight, so that's why I'm going to go for a roller coaster ride. It sounds like you should join me."

Greg stared up at him.

"You... Never invite anyone to join you for roller coaster rides."

"And you never stand in the parking lot cussing and screaming. Seems we're just full of surprises today."

Greg smiled. "I can't think of a better way to end this miserable shift."

"Come on," Grissom said as he got in his car.

Greg walked over and climbed into the passenger seat. Grissom backed out and pulled out of the parking lot.

Grissom smiled. "Have you ever read the stories of Sinbad the Sailor?"

"No."

"You should. After tonight, you might find a kindred spirit."

Greg smiled, laying his head against the window. "I'll have a week to do that, Grissom. I'll let you know what I think when I come back to work."

"I look forward to it."

They were silent for six blocks, and then Grissom asked, "May I ask _how_ you ended up shot in the butt?"

Greg started laughing, hardly able to get out, "I don't know, but I don't reccommend it."

And his laughter enticed Grissom to join him.


End file.
